


The Sound of Your Voice in My Ear

by by_no_one_more_than_me (Lady_Cleo)



Category: Spy (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, F/M, Maybe explicit language later- this is Ford we're talking about, Mild Language, Naughty, Phone Sex, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-31
Updated: 2016-03-01
Packaged: 2018-05-17 07:52:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5860480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Cleo/pseuds/by_no_one_more_than_me
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Most people never saw Susan Cooper – at least not the real Susan Cooper...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. It Started with a Ring...

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I'm back. And the SPY gang is back. And... oh dear, how is this going to turn out?

Most people never saw Susan Cooper – at least not the real Susan Cooper. This was partially because she escaped most people’s notice, and partially because not even Susan knew what the real Susan Cooper was supposed to look like. To see her walking down the street was to perhaps notice a curvaceous figure, or a sweet smile, or the scent of vanilla and chocolate and burnt sugar that tended to linger in her wake. She was pretty, but not beautiful. Smart, but not striking. There… but not there. Her life was spent blending in with wallpaper and seamlessly fading into backgrounds… at least whenever she was out of The Basement.

The Basement was a beyond exclusive place. Almost anyone who cared to knew about it, though almost no one knew where it was or even everything _that_ it was. In previous incarnations it had been a storage cellar, a speakeasy, a fight club meetup, an oubliette for the Mob, a home-shopping warehouse and a failed nightclub.

Now it housed a labyrinthine tangle of soundproof cubicles, plush chairs, warm bodies, phone lines and Ethernet cables. Now it was the number you dialed when you wanted someone amazing in your ear and were willing to pay through the nose for the privilege. Now it was where the real Susan Cooper lived 6 nights a week, running people’s lives from a computer and keeping them going through an Ultralux headset.

Susan’s callers ranged from sad members of the Lonely Hearts Club to sophisticated horndogs taking matters into their own hands, timid virgins to seasoned veterans and everything in between – who all needed her to be everything in between as well. She played the scolding headmistress, the doting girlfriend, the ‘I got your back’ bestie, the “shut up- I wear heels bigger than your dick” dominatrix, the flirty wrong number, the curious android and straight sex. She could slip into any persona like a second skin, offering up any number of necessary body parts to a call: sympathetic ear, firm hand, shoulder to cry on, foot in the ass, and whatever orifice you felt like trying. There were things she wouldn’t do and parts she wouldn’t play, but the people who wanted them knew better than to call the Basement, so it rarely came up.

No matter who was on the other end of the line, they all agreed: the best thing about the call was Susan’s voice in their ear.

Her corner cube butted against the infamous Rick Ford. With a personality that ran the gamut from sandpaper to corrosive acid (depending on how good a mood he was in) she was amazed he still worked here- except that he could bring off any customer in 10 minutes or less just by talking. He made drill instructors cry, for Pete’s sake and Susan had a hard time believing a word that came out of his mouth, but the customers ate him up with a spoon. He talked about slamming them into the wall, or rolling his eyes while they licked his boots, or having them on the hood of whatever car he was lusting after that week and they came like a rocket.

In the same way Susan’s voice was her grace on the phone, so was it Ford’s – the two of them could probably read the dictionary all night and still make bank. The only difference was Susan was nothing like anyone or anything she played, and Ford was always himself. He told the same crazy stories about poison ingesting crime-rings and Cirque du Soleil performances on the phone as he did in person, and would rant similarly whether someone had drank the last of the coffee in the break room or asked if they could cuddle after they came.

Two cubes down was her friend Nancy, a lanky Amazon from Devon whose clientele were almost exclusively rappers and hip-hop artists who seemed to crave a bumbling British nanny... that was as close to Nancy being herself as was allowed on the phone.

The two usually went for a cocktail at a bar down the street after work – or at least tried, as service tended to fall somewhere between glacial and DOA. Had they gone in _before_ work, when happy hour was in full depressing swing and the bar was packed, Susan could’ve understood the chilly reception. But when they arrived 75 to 90 minutes before last call, when the only competition for notice was the sprawling drunks snoring into lukewarm beer and bowls of stale peanuts? Come on.

A low double beep jolts Susan out of her melancholy, and she takes a deep breath before slipping into character. “Amber Valentine’s line.”

“Hey you.”

An unadulterated grin bursts out at the sound. It’s B, her three-night-a-week regular – although conversation lately is a coin flip between the line’s primary purpose, and a more natural free-flowing chat. She gets him off and they talk about sports, or movies, or recipes, or board game rules. Susan is careful to keep any personal details vague or small, but he’s free to talk about anything and knows it. Occasionally she’ll tell him to quit being adorable and save his pennies, but for the most part she lets him go until they hit the limit. And he adores her for it.

Tonight is a chat night, and 40 minutes fly by in a blink discussing the latest bestselling novel and weirdos in Fantasy Football.

Still giggling over an anecdote about a guy with a rabbit’s foot helmet, Susan manages, “So, not that I’m not having fun but…did you wanna get off tonight?”

There is an uncustomary pause; B usually said yes or no right away. “Uhh… thanks. I’m… good. I mean, I wouldn’t mind, but I called to talk to you. About something specific.”

“Not like the ‘unicorn dream’ specific, right?”

His laughter settles in the pit of her stomach like a warm ball. “No! And please don’t ever remind me of the stuff I’ve said to you.” They share a chuckle before he sobers into uncalm quiet. “I got that new job- the analyst thing?” She nods, momentarily forgetting he can’t see her. “Anyway, I start in the morning…” His voice trails off, a bit lost.

“And?” she prompts gently.

Sigh. “What if I’m complete crap?”

For anyone but herself, she’s an excellent confidence builder. “You’re gonna be fine.” The lingering silence on the line tells her he doesn’t quite buy it. “Do I need to start singing that song from _Gypsy_ about being swell and having the whole world on a plate?”

His responding snort cheers her too. “Yeah but if it came true, I’d be sneezing my head off.”

“Just remember your allergy meds and your keyboard cheats and starting here… starting now, honey every-thing’s com-ing up RO-ses!” Her singing voice is pitched a little differently than when she speaks, and she worries too much of her inherent sunshine-y silliness is bleeding through. But B doesn’t seem to mind. The last portion of their session is spent chatting about snack foods, as they discover they’ve been having a mutual craving for yogurt pretzels for nearly a week.

He promises to satisfy the urge if she’ll treat herself too, and she rings off with a lingering smile – that quickly vanishes when her buzzer bleeps, indicating Elaine would like to see her. Now.

Every cube is outfitted with a buzzer. Elaine can monitor everything from active lines to credit reports (and missile silo codes and the President’s porn habits, according to Ford) from her office, and usually only buzzes when someone isn’t working. Or if it’s an emergency. Susan has only been buzzed 6 times in her 3 years here, and 5 of the 6 were positive things. She shakes off a shudder at the memory of the first one, and taps on the door before entering.

Elaine Crocker – known simply as the BOSS to anyone outside the Basement – is a lean, mean, no-nonsense businesswoman who bought the business 5 years ago and turned it into the hottest adult line in 6 states. Her plans for world domination (always outlined with a bizarrely serious deadpan that made Susan break out in nervous giggles) mean that one day The Basement will rise from the underground and go global, with Elaine as commander of a squad of filthy-talking professionals ready and willing to do any assignment. At the moment, she just needs Susan to cover a few more hours… or rather, the entire upcoming shift of the flaky new hire Cress N. Wright. Susan opens her mouth to protest (or at least ask what kinds of clients she can expect) but Elaine beats her to the punch.

“Cooper, I’m gonna say this once. I appreciate that this is an inconvenience but quite simply, you are the best I’ve got. Why do you think I didn’t ask Ford?”

“Because Ford would tell you no.”

“Well there’s that. Maybe not in so many words that had more than four letters, but yeah. Everyone else is busy or booked and I can’t trust Nancy with this – she’s oddly great with the whole ‘bling and Cristal’ crowd, but she can’t talk to regular people like you can.”

Susan is wavering, that damnable Girl Scout streak trying to rear its ugly capped head to help. Elaine notices and jumps on the point like Hobbes on Calvin.

“You do this for me tonight, and not only will I pay you **double** for the shift… next time? You can tell me no.” Susan’s eyes go wide at the offer of a Ford special, and she nods before sticking out a hand for the call list. Elaine retains it a minute, holding Susan’s gaze along with the paperwork. “I meant what I said earlier, but I’m counting on you. Don’t let me down on this.”

A warm smile curls in the corner of Susan’s mouth. “I won’t, boss. I will let you up.”

“Get the hell out of my office.”

“Okay.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The next day...

The next morning, exhausted but wired after slogging through a double, she heads to the coffee place down the street from her apartment. The line moves slow but steady, and the coffee here is worth the wait. She skims a few lines of the poetry book she keeps in her bag for slow nights, reveling in the flow of words by Carol Anne Duffy as she nears the counter.

Her eyes keep trailing up over the edge of the page to roam over the guy in front of her. Slicked back dark blond hair, a nice body in a very nice suit, and a leather carryall slung crossways over his tall lean frame. He keeps checking his watch - not quite fidgeting but clearly a bit on edge. _Does he really need caffeine?_

Mystery Man steps up to the counter and orders a decaf chai latte with extra honey. Susan stops cold. That voice- it _can’t_ be.

But the barista who rarely manages to crack her sullen veneer for Susan is practically oozing a smile at the man before her, and he is – in undeniable B style – playing it off with a smooth laugh. He offers a handful of notes for his order and moves to the side counter to wait. The barista goes from glow to glower in less than a second; Susan almost admires the deftness of the switch as she stammers out her usual order – even though she’s been coming here at least twice a week for almost a year, and always gets the same thing.

She buries her nose in her book again to avoid staring unabashedly at the newly unveiled B – short for Bradley, according to his cup – and ends up bumping into him when he whirls around to check the clocks above the menu board.

“Whoa!” His hands on her shoulders are warm and steadying, even if they do leave her a little weak in the knees. “Sorry about that. Are you okay?” He sets her to rights and slips his hands in his pockets, leaving her a little sad at the loss of contact and _oh my gosh Susan- get a grip!_

“I’m fine,” she squeaks. “Ahem. My fault, actually- I wasn’t watching where I was going.” She gestures feebly with the softened paperback. His hand envelopes hers as he tilts the spine to read the title and her mouth goes dry.

“Is it any good?” he asks, releasing her. His eyes are a soulful blue with a hint of grey, and she loses herself in their depths a few seconds longer than cool.

“Uhhh… yeah. It’s good. She writes really… really beautiful things about love and hope and… time. Speaking of which, I sorta couldn’t help but notice you keep checking your watch. Is everything alright?”

A bit sheepish at being caught, he checks the timepiece again, eyeing the row of mismatched clocks above the menu with a puzzled frown. “It’s my first day at a new job and I don’t want to be late. But…” he bounces his gaze back and forth once more before looking to her for help. “None of these clocks match the time I’ve got.”

“Oh. Well, see, around here time is more a generally accepted illusion than an actual reality. The clocks are just for show – they don’t match Greenwich or the Atomic Clock or each other or… anything.” Momentarily distracted by his amused focus, she finally remembers to hunt through her shoulder bag for her phone. “But if you wanted to check that yours was right, cause it probably is but you don’t want to be late, and I’m rambling- Here!” She shoves her Samsung under his nose, narrowly missing the point of the feature. “Sorry.”

Inclining his head a safe distance and angle, he reads the time, holding up his watch to compare. “Looks like I’m good- as long as my latte doesn’t take _too_ -”

“Chai latte for Bradley!” The other barista chirps, waiting for him to turn before handing him the cup with a simpering flourish. “Extra _honey,_ ” she emphasizes as she slips him two packets of organic.

“Uhh, great. Thanks.” He flashes a quick smile and disengages her fingers before turning to Susan with a grateful ( _and far more genuine_ , she thinks) grin. “And thank _you_. Bumping into you turned out to be… an unexpected pleasure.”

She gives him a sort of ‘you too’ head bobble and a little wave when he turns back at the door, savoring the moment for about 15 seconds before the barista hollers “Double skinny mocha for Suzanne!” in a yell that somehow screams boredom. The cup is shot across the stretch of psuedo-granite Formica without so much as a backward glance, and Susan blesses her reflexes that she ends up with a slightly hot palm instead of a scalded, soaking wet shirt.

“Uh, excuse me. This is decaf, right?” The barista shoots her a glare, punctuated with an eyebrow. One of these days, she’s gonna tap into her spine of steel, ‘scare the shit out of you’ persona and these little witches aren’t gonna know what hit them. “You know what- it’s okay. I’ll just stay up.”

Yeah. One of these days. _You’re a real killer, Susan_ she chides herself as she slinks out the door and heads home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello again, sweeties. sorry about the wait, but consider this a slightly early Valentine to anyone reading my latest offering to the fandom.  
> There may or may not be a third chapter up on Valentine's Day; if not, I'll have one up soon. and if anyone has a suggestion about an end point, feel free to comment.


	3. Chapter 3

She should have the night off. Forget that she just worked a double – she **never** has the Monday shift. But when she tries to use her Ford special, Elaine insists in that ‘push me right now and they won’t find enough pieces with a fine mesh screen to identify you’ tone and Susan dutifully sets an alarm before collapsing into bed. Six hours later finds her microwaving the undrunk coffee she’d thrown in the fridge, scowling at the contents of said icebox while she rubs the sleep out of her eyes. She keeps a rotating container of leftovers at the office, but she’s too hungry to wait til she clocks in. What’ll it be: the 3 day old Chinese or the 4 day old Italian?

After an obligatory sniff test, she tosses the eggplant parm and eats leaning against her counter, washing down tepid chicken lo mein with her decidedly caffeinated coffee (seriously did they _add_ a shot or what?) and wondering if she can get away with throwing a sweater over her cami and yoga pants.

One hand is on the closet door when a defiant streak (probably the love child of exhaustion and imminent ptomaine) prompts a ‘screw it’ and she grabs a sweater and her carryall and heads downstairs.

Elaine gives her a _Look_ when she hands her the log-in list for the night, but refrains from comment on her laidback attire. _Maybe she realizes I’m actually doing her a favor_ , Susan grumbles as she settles into her cube for the night. Her callers aren’t bad, even if none of her regulars ring in, and the night moves by at more than a snail’s pace.

She has a little over an hour left when Ford literally stumbles across her doing yoga stretches on the break room floor. Narrowly avoiding slamming into the table, he rights himself then yanks her to her feet.

“Alright?” She’s not sure if it’s a commentary on the situation or her current state, but she nods just the same. Ford releases her and sets about making a fresh pot of coffee. Her eyes follow him blearily, more fascinated by this rare burst of domesticity than the fact that he has a fuzzy glowing shadow dogging his steps.

“So what you doing here, Coopah?” It’s a sign of how tired she is that she finds the odd accent he places on her name charming tonight.

The answer is a yawn of stretched syllables. “Elaine.”

“It’s your night off, innit?” Susan nods blearily. “After you just worked a double?” She repeats the motion carefully, afraid of actually nodding off. “You should’ve told her to fuck off.”

A short burst of laughter escapes before she can stop it. “Yeah, like that would work.”

“It could.” A sharp finger pokes her between his next string of words. “You won’t know til you try.” He retracts the index finger still indenting her shoulder and busies himself stirring two lumps and some cream into a ‘Keep Calm and Caffeinate’ mug, passing it to her when it meets her approved ratio. “We’re not so different, y’know.”

“Ford, I couldn’t be less like you if I tried,” she mumbles around a mouthful of surprisingly tasty joe, then realizes how rude that might have been.

Unsure if he’s pissed or impressed, she watches those eyebrows of his dart up his forehead at the cheeky reply. “Think again, Coopah. I make drill sergeants cry- you make things weep. Girls, boys, cocks, the small woodland creatures that take refuge under your desk while you sing…”

A little squeak darts out of her mouth. She snaps it closed and does a great 30-second imitation of a goldfish before replying quietly, “That still doesn’t mean I can tell Elaine to go… whatever. I can’t afford to get fired.”

“Oh please. You’re amazing and every caller knows it. The least you could do is stand up for yourself.”

“Doesn’t work that way. I blend in, Ford. It’s… what I do.”

He stares at her like she’s just grown a second head… that called James Bond a pussy. “Why the fuck would you **ever** bother trying to blend in when it’s obvious to blind Martians you were born to stand out?!”

“Wow. That was… actually nice,” Susan responds, taken aback. “Thank you?”

“What the fuck ever. I’m off to the pub.” He brushes past her, though whether the gentle sock to her shoulder is well-intentioned or even intentional is lost as she turns to watch him go, a bit more than the coffee warming her up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know. It's been longer than it should've been. I just didn't think anyone was still interested.  
> hope you like my peace offering chapter. I'm still noodling over what's gonna come next... (beside Susan's callers, anyway.)


End file.
